Hollywood Dirt

by Alessandra Torre

  “Uh, nobody’s called us,” the man said slowly, glancing toward the dimly lit building. Us. So maybe there’d been more than just him guiding their giant death trap safely to the ground. Reassuring.

  “Has my car arrived?” A question he knew the answer to, even as it fell from his lips. Behind the man was a large gravel lot holding only two vehicles. Neither one looked capable of air conditioning, much less a private driver. Where was security? Justin had had hours of flight time to prepare. This shouldn’t have been difficult, and he should have, at the very least, texted Cole an update. So many mistakes, from an assistant who didn’t make mistakes, and Cole felt the first flick of worry uncoil in his stomach. He dialed Justin’s number and held the phone to his ear, DeLuca’s phone sounded, the man turning away.

  It rang eleven times. After four, he was irritated. After seven, he grew worried. When the man’s voicemail finally picked up, he was panicked. He didn’t leave a voicemail, just hung up the phone and locked it. From behind him, DeLuca rejoined them, his big hand falling heavily on Cole’s shoulder. “Bad news,” the attorney said. “Your assistant has been in an accident. TMZ posted the news an hour ago. He’s alive, but pretty beat up.”

  Another crack in a sinking ship. And Justin… Justin was his glue, the constant, the only friend who Cole could name with ease. He’s alive… but pretty beat up. Cole took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. “Okay. Let’s head back.”

  “No.” The order in the man’s voice caught him by surprise.

  “I need to see him—in the hospital; he’s been with me for years,” Cole protested. Thirteen years, to be precise. Two more than the dead ringtones in his ear. A long time. Before Nadia, before the trio of Oscars, before his fame hit ridiculous heights. He needed to go to him. He should leave this dust-filled sauna and return to his city of clean hands, cool air and luxury. What kind of city had an airport like this?

  Not city. He corrected himself. Town. That had been the draw of it all. A sleepy town, filled to the brim with millionaires. Come to think of it, they probably didn’t even have a spa. The tightness in his back grew worse.

  “You’re not going anywhere. The LA hospital is going to be a zoo filled with paps waiting to see that pretty face of yours. You’ll turn the whole thing into a circus, and he’s not awake right now anyway, isn’t going to be able to talk to you for a while.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was the side effect of a car accident. Was on foot and got pinned between two cars.” DeLuca’s voice softened.

  Cole looked away, his eyes running into the airport handler, who still stood there, his head tilted, catching every word. He let out a loud breath. DeLuca was right. Going to the hospital would be a disaster. He’d send flowers, maybe a strippergram, would have Justi—his brain hiccupped on the realization that his right hand was suddenly gone, the man who did everything, greased all joints, made all arrangements. Gone. In a hospital three thousand miles away with his focus on his own life, no longer on Cole’s. He staggered a little in place, DeLuca’s hand reaching out and gripping his shoulder, holding him up.

  Ten minutes later, they were in a borrowed truck, rattling away from the airport.

  Cole held up a hand against the sun, which blared in at an uncomfortable angle. The window was open, the dirty, hot air sweeping in and over him, and he reached to raise it, chuckling a little at the foreign feel of an actual window crank in his hand.

  DeLuca held the phone away from his mouth. “I’m tracking down the local Envision contact now.” They rounded a tight turn, and Cole gripped the handle firmly, looking around for a seatbelt. Nothing.

  “Bennington Payne?” DeLuca barked into the phone. “Where are you right now?”

  CHAPTER 24

  When Ben answered the phone, I relaxed my arms, lying fully back in the kiddie pool, my head propped up against the edge, a folded towel acting as a pillow.

  Ben’s linen pants wandered my way, his cell against his ear, the other hand pressed against his free ear, as if he were in a rock concert and not the middle of nowhere. He was probably getting poor reception. I closed one eye and half-squinted his way, the nosy half of me eavesdropping.

  “Ummm… Quincy?” He said the city as if it was a question.

  “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  I opened both eyes when he did the frantic snapping waving thing at me. I sat up and raised my eyebrows, waiting for more.

  “Yes sir. But… now? I thought that—okay. Yes sir.” I wondered how many ‘yes sirs’ this conversation was going to involve. Wondered how I was supposed to piece any of this together when all I had were half sentences full of Ben stammering.

  “What’s your address?” That question was aimed at me, a loud whisper further soundproofed by his hand atop the receiver.

  I told him, this change in the conversation certainly taking a turn toward Interesting. Ben repeated it into the phone, then—with a final ‘yes sir’—ended the call.

  I didn’t think a man could be paler than my sweet vampire, but oh… oh… one can. I watched his face lose all color, the push of his cell into his pants pocket a fumbling, awkward movement.

  “What’s happening?” I demanded, making the effort to stand, my bathing suit leaking thin streams down my legs.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing dramatically. He looked at me, my worn black bathing suit, then down at the kiddie pool, as if some answer lay in its bright blue depths, then back at the house, his rental car parked at an odd angle underneath the dogwood tree, then back at me.

  “Cole Masten is here.”

  “Where?” Here was a very particular location. And I knew, for a fact, that he wasn’t here here. Yet, with an almost sinking certainty, my address just blindly passed over, I suddenly realized that here here was an eminent possibility, and I stepped out of the kiddie pool quickly, crossing the dry grass, until I stood right in front of Ben.

  “Where?” I repeated with enough aggression for him to start.

  “In Quincy. Just left the airport. That was his attorney. He wanted to know where I was, is bringing Cole here now, said something about his assistant being in the hospital.” The words came out in a mad rush, as if they wouldn’t be true if spoken fast enough, and I stepped back a step just to get away from their stench. “How far away is the airport?”

  I closed my eyes, tried to think. “Five. Maybe ten minutes. Holy shit.” I glanced back down at my bathing suit, thought about my house, the dirty dishes in the sink, my tampon box on top of the toilet, the remnants of Ben’s and my mani-pedi party still on the coffee table, mail scattered on the table… this was bad. I took off running, the white-linen-panted gay close on my water-pruned heels.

  “See, the Thompson family is one of the original forty-three. That was really the root of the problem. Summer is a sweet girl and all, but she just doesn’t have the family background, the rearing to handle difficult times with grace. That was the problem. You know the girl has no father. That should tell you something right there.”

  “Marilyn, she has a father. He lives in Connecticut, that’s what Betty Anne says. He has some flesh-eating disorder where he can’t be around other people. That’s why they moved here.”

  “That has got to be the most idiotic thing you have ever said. No, she doesn’t have a father. He ran off when Francis was pregnant with Summer; that’s the real story.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It turned out that the window didn’t roll all the way up. It was broken. Which was just as well since it was too hot to be in a truck with no air conditioning and no airflow. Brad DeLuca chuckled; Cole rolled the window back down, and took the phone that Brad passed him.

  “The guy said he’s at 4 Darrow Lane. Do me a favor and look it up on my GPS.”

  Cole opened the maps app and found the address. “It’s two miles away. Keep straight for a bit.”

  The attorney nodded, and they continued on for a moment in silence, Cole spreading his feet and bracing out ag
ainst the rock of the truck.

  “I haven’t driven a truck in years.” Brad commented. “I’ve missed the stick.”

  Cole laughed. “Yeah. I miss my Ferrari’s stick right now.” Maybe they could trailer it over. The truck hit a large pothole, and his hands found the dash and held on. Maybe not. His car wouldn’t last its first trip down a dirt road. He glanced over at the man, his fierce profile different in the light of the afternoon sun, his strong hands loose and relaxed on the wheel, his body as comfortable in the old truck as it had been at the Beverly Hills restaurant. Maybe DeLuca wasn’t such an asshole. Maybe he was exactly what Cole needed—someone who wouldn’t kiss his ass—someone who would give it to him straight, without the expensive bullshit that everyone in Hollywood sprinkled on their gluten-free parfaits every morning.

  His optimism was punished with DeLuca’s next words. “I told that guy at the airport that I’d have his truck back in an hour. So I’m just dropping you off with this guy. His name is Bennington—he’s the location scout for the movie so he should know his way around town and be able to get you settled.” The sun shifted behind a cloud, and the outside world grew a little darker.

  Cole glanced toward the sky. “Bennington?” he repeated.

  “Yeah. Bennington Payne. I didn’t pick the guy’s name.”

  Cole smiled, glancing down at the phone when it chimed. “Turn right here.” They eased around the bend, and Cole glanced back at the road they’d just left. They hadn’t passed another car since they left the airport. It felt strange after a lifetime in LA, a city where rush hour stretched twenty hours a day, and cars became second houses. He’d been to remote locations before, had filmed a samurai film in the Netherlands, had spent two months in Alaska, but this was the first time he had really felt the openness, the quietness, the solitude of a place. Maybe it was because the divorce papers and Justin’s accident were so recent, the two key parts of his life, of his armor, breaking off at once, his skin underneath raw and delicate. He watched the fields go by, perfect row after row of uninterrupted green and white. The phone buzzed in his hand, and he pointed to the right, to the large plantation house, ivory columns stretching up three stories, the wide front porch complete with a half dozen rockers, the ensemble framed by a chorus of hundred-year oaks. “That’s it.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Ben watched me in confusion, one perfect brow arched high as I tore through the house, a laundry basket in hand, scooping everything off every surface, my feet slapping at the floor, my damn bathing suit riding up my crack. The tampons, can’t forget those. I rushed into the bathroom, the yellow box dumped in, along with half of the contents of our medicine cabinet. Tonight would be fun, Mama screaming for Preparation H while I fished the remote control out of the loaded-to-the-brim basket.

  “Shh!” I hissed at Ben, going through a mental checklist of the things I had time to do versus what was critical.

  “He’s not going to come inside.” I heard Ben’s sentence through the fog of self-preservation and skidded to a stop, the laundry basket bouncing, a roll of toilet popping out and tumbling down the hall ’til it came to a stop alongside Ben’s foot.

  “What?”

  “They’re just coming by to pick me up. They probably won’t even get out of the car.”

  Of course. I took my first actual breath in. That made perfect sense. Why would they come in? They probably won’t come to a complete stop—will just roll by and pop open the door, yelling and waving for Ben like he was chasing a train. I set down the laundry basket on the kitchen counter and glanced down at my bathing suit. “Okay. Great. I’m gonna change.”

  There was a loud knock on the door, and my eyes flicked to his in panic.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” The porch board under Cole’s left heel was soft, and he shifted his weight onto the other foot, his eyes taking in the embroidered curtain covering the window. Inside, there was the murmur of voices, the shuffle of steps.

  “Yes,” DeLuca said shortly, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time. “This is it.”

  They had bypassed the main home and pulled up to a tinier version with two vehicles parked in front—an old Chevy truck and a Ford sedan with Oklahoma plates. The car was probably the scout’s—a rental. The truck… well, who knew what hillbilly would be--

  The door swung open, a tall blonde standing there, Cole’s eyes dropping past her face and landing on her swimsuit—a faded black one-piece with jean shorts hastily buttoned as he watched. Her hair was wild and long, as were her tan legs, stretching down forever and ending in pink toe nail polish. Nadia would laugh at that polish, would snicker under her breath and mutter ‘juvenile’ or ‘white trash.’ She’d also raise her brows at the tan, her hand frantic in her bag for some sunscreen, the reminder to apply taken seriously, all while texting her assistant to book her next spray tan.

  “Is Bennington here?” Brad rested a hand on the doorframe, his arm blocking Cole’s view of her chest but Cole saw the flick of her eyes from his to the attorney’s, saw the slight drop of her mouth as she looked up into DeLuca’s face. Something inside of him twisted in an ugly manner. The girl had a damn movie star on her front porch and had looked away. He turned away, resting his hands on the worn wood of the porch’s railing and coughed out a laugh at the state his fragile ego had become. Wow. How low had he fallen that a strange girl couldn’t look at another man without him caring? DeLuca was a handsome guy; anybody could see that. Plus, he had the alpha male type testosterone that made women crawl over each other to his side. It was natural for the girl to look at him, for her attention to divert from Cole, especially when he had asked her a question. But still. Three Oscars in his storage unit. Her gaze could have at least lingered.

  He turned back to the door, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms, waiting for this round of introductions to pass so they could get to the hotel and he could take a shower. The location scout had appeared, replacing the blonde at the door. Too bad. She’d been better to look at. The scout was hyper, his head bobbing rapidly, his hands occasionally joining in—the combination of gestures and head nods making Cole’s head hurt.

  Someone had said something to him. DeLuca’s head was turned, both sets of eyes on him, expecting some sort of an answer. Cole lifted his chin, straightening off the railing. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “It turns out there aren’t a lot of lodging options in Quincy but Bennington—”

  “It’s Ben,” the man interrupted, practically fawning forward. Behind him, in the doorway, the girl reappeared, a baggy white T-shirt now pulled over her swimsuit, her wild hair contained in a ponytail. Her eyes met his, and he smiled, the Cole Masten smile that unlocked every door. She didn’t smile back. Shit. Everything was falling to hell, including his smile. He made a mental note to have Justin—to have someone—make him a dentist appointment. To practice in the mirror this evening and make sure that everything was working right. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was gay.

  “Right,” DeLuca continued. “Ben says the lodging accommodations in town are fairly limited—that the closest town with any real hotels is Tallahassee—”

  Cole’s ears perked up at this, his arms dropping from his chest. A college town. Bars. Sexy ass coeds who would beam up to him like his word was God’s. Maybe that would give the ego boost that, right now, seemed to be needed.

  “—but I told him that wouldn’t work. That you needed to be in Quincy.” DeLuca smirked at him like he knew what he was thinking.

  Oh, right. The rules. Cole slapped a mosquito on his neck in response, feeling a drop of sweat run down his back. “Not to ruin this delightful party,” he waved at another insect, “but could we move this inside? To the air conditioning?”

  Bennington and the girl exchanged a quick look, then the girl smiled sweetly. “Certainly. Can I get y’all anything to drink? Some sweet tea, perhaps?”

  CHAPTER 27

  It only took eight minutes for my hero
worship of Cole Masten to nose dive into a sea of dislike. His looks weren’t the problem; if anything, the man leaning against my railing was even better looking than on a movie screen. I studied him when he turned around, when he gripped the railing and looked out on the Holdens’ farm. And I saw a bit of pain—in the hunch of his shoulders, in the chew of his cheek, some torture in the eyes that had turned back around and met mine. I thought then, my hand resting on the doorknob, looking out on the front porch that held two of the sexiest men I had ever seen, that there was something there, in him, something whole and raw and beautiful.

  Now, I know what I saw. I know what that something was. It was asshole, pure and simple. It was spoiled rotten—I get what I want because I deserve it, you are beneath me—asshole. I’ve experienced men like him before. Carl Hanson grew up on the same dirt I did, attended Quincy High just like me, danced with me at the Homecoming Dance, and rode dirt bikes with me in the summer. Then he graduated. Went to New York after UGA. Found out what Daddy’s money could buy him, found out what life outside our county line was like, and came back a few Christmases later. Looked so far down his nose at me I could see the specks of cocaine in his nostril. He palmed my ass like he owned it at the church winter social, and I punched him smack in the nose. Broke the knuckle of my index finger doing so, but it was worth it. Mr. Hanson paid my hospital bill. Came over and had tea with Mama and me and delivered a pile of apologies for the asshole that his son had become.

  I had nine more knuckles and a well-healed tenth. If Cole Masten planned on following up his visual examination of my body with any action, I’d let him know how hard girls in the South could punch.